


popstar, but this shit ain't bubblegum.

by sufianas



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Character Study, Eventual Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Poor Attempt At Writing Smut, Pop Culture, thinly veiled references to justin bieber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26783407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sufianas/pseuds/sufianas
Summary: Jongin Kim, better known to his legion of adoring fans simply as KAI, is perhaps the world's biggest popstar and heartthrob. You can't go anywhere without seeing his face plastered in some store window, or billboard, or hearing his songs playing on the radio, at parties. But nobody really knows him; they don't want to. He's a popstar, his job is to entertain. Jongin just wants someone to understand, to see beyond the facade of KAI and find Jongin, love Jongin.
Relationships: Kim Jongin | Kai/Kim Junmyeon | Suho
Comments: 26
Kudos: 50





	popstar, but this shit ain't bubblegum.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is 100% inspired by the drake and dj khaled music video for POPSTAR. a lot of jongin's behaviours as the popstar are a reference to justin bieber in his bizzle era in 2014. so it is terribly, terribly self indulgent. also thanks to gab, for listening to me complain about this fic 24/7 and validating me for listening to justin bieber in the year 2020.

Jongin groans, pushing away the face which seems to be hounding his periphery, before turning to his other side, pressing his face into the pillow. His Millesimo sheets crinkle and then relax under his weight, only the finest for his complexion. The Egyptian cotton with a sateen finishing were made to order and flown in specifically from Italy for him; he refused to sleep on anything other than the finest luxury sheeting. 

“Jongin,” the voice tries again. This time there’s a hand, which rests on his shoulder, shaking him gently. 

“Fuck off.” Perhaps if it were later in the day, Jongin would have added a please, or ratted off his coffee order; that is only if his manager had forgotten to bring it with him. He can hear the man arguing with someone else on the phone; they are definitely arguing about him. They are always arguing about him: Jongin Kim, or as he is better known to the public — KAI. 

It had started simple; the way it always does, a regular Justin Bieber origin story. Jongin had been a simple kid, he’d never dreamt of stardom the way other children do, especially those who grew up taking singing lessons, acting lessons or dancing lessons. For Jongin, it was the latter. He had stepped foot into his first ballet studio at the age of seven and never looked back. From there, it had been jazz lessons, and hip-hop lessons; lessons his mother could barely afford unless she sought help from his grandparents. Jongin didn’t care. 

He might have, if he were a little older, but as a ten year old, all Jongin cared about was dancing. The way his feet met the floor, the way they lifted off and into the air, the shift of his centre of gravity was addicting to a child. He molded his body to the music, allowing it to enter his bloodstream until it was the thrum of the bass line which pumped the blood to his veins, not the unsteady rhythm of his heart. Everything had escalated from there. His ballet teacher had suggested singing lessons, very obviously having seen something in Jongin that nobody else had. He liked that; he liked being special. 

In school, Jongin sat decisively in the middle. Those in the front seats were the ones who would try too hard, their hands perpetually suspended mid-air, their spines taut with anticipation to catch whatever bone the teacher threw at them. The ones lounging in the back were worse; gone were the days where the delinquents would take residence in the last two rows of the classroom. Now those seats were reserved for try-hards of a worse kind. At least the bores in the front did not pretend to be anything other than what they were; those in the back would pretend they were miscreants, interrupting class and disrespecting the teacher for no reason. 

See, the best place to sit had always been in the middle rows. Much like the middle child, who vanishes without any effort in the eyes of their parents, those in the middle rows were equally invisible. Jongin was happy to be sitting in the middle row; it meant the teacher’s eyes would glaze over when looking at his row, even if she was looking directly at him, which meant she would never ask him to volunteer for the debate team or set up for Sports Day. Sitting in the middle row meant the miscreants in the back would not care enough to nose around in his business, would not care that he laced up ballet shoes every day after school and spent hours in a dance studio until he had perspired through his shirt, drenching it. 

The very same people would not recognize him to this day. Even though they try; they put on familiarity, greedy for the attention, for the prestige of knowing someone famous. They are like wasps to sugar water, digging their opportunistic little fingers into his fame, into his aura. To Jongin, all of this is water off his back. People make stories about him every day. Even now, as he drapes himself in a dining table chair, silk robe loosely tied against his waist, he scrolls through the news on his phone. They are talking about him; they are always talking about him. Not that Jongin minds, in fact he encourages it. They dictate the wild parties he throws, the noise complaints, the police arrests, and Jongin laps it up. If they think he can’t get any worse, he makes sure to outdo their expectations. Jongin has always been a performer, and this role, the role of a spoiled popstar, is the performance of a lifetime.

Dishes clatter in the kitchen and Jongin looks up from his phone with a frown. The remnants of last night’s party echo within the large mansion he’d purchased after the success of his third album,  _ Masterpiece _ , going double platinum. He had been on the precipice of turning twenty two then, much too young to know how to handle fame, the adoring fans, the screaming fangirls, and the hoard of critics and naysayers waiting at every turn to pull him down. 

Half empty bottles of liquor decorate various flat surfaces throughout the house; in front of Jongin, sitting next to his mug of cafe latte, is a bottle of Cuervo — although, it is highly plausible that Jongin had put tequila in his coffee to give it a little kick — bottle cap missing. Glasses, some broken, other saved by the assortment of rugs on his floor, are splayed across the entire house, like little landmines scattered along his marble flooring. He rubs at his eyes, turning a blind gaze to the little ziplocs and baggies on the coffee table, some empty, others with the residue of the poison of the night still clinging to its film. 

“At least there weren’t any complaints from the neighbours last night.”

Jongin looks up at that, sipping at his coffee. He winces at the burn as the liquid goes down his throat. “There weren’t?” His tone is amused. “Shame, I’ll have to try harder next time.”

An exasperated sigh escapes his manager, and Jongin feels bad. It isn’t the fault of his staff that he’s been acting out as of late; in fact, he’s been acting out since his break up with Chanel’s muse and singer, Jennie Kim. Not that it had affected his sales or streams:  _ Satin Sheets _ had hit a million views on YouTube within an hour of its release, and his pre-release tracks have been sitting pretty on the Billboard Charts for weeks now. All publicity, it seems, despite what his manager will tell him, is good publicity. 

“Jongin, please.”

“I’m kidding!” He flashes his manager a signature smile, the one where his eyes disappear into crescents and his dimple plays shyly upon his complexion. It’s a killer smile, in fact, it’s what cements his status as an international heartthrob.

His manager, Kris, unfortunately is unimpressed. He rubs at his temples, as if being in the same space as Jongin is a trial in itself. It must be, Jongin decides; he is mercurial at best, and with this new role he plays — the popstar gone wild — he has made more enemies than friends, and even lost some he considered allies. “Are you sober?” He doesn’t give Jongin a chance to respond and barrels forward with the day’s schedule, holding his phone in one hand and a day planner in the other. “You have your fittings with  _ Impressionisms _ today for their runway show.”

Jongin rewards his manager with a real smile this time. One which is soft as it blooms across his features, softens his brown eyes and relaxes his shoulders. Jongin slumps into his chair, sipping at the rest of his coffee. “I know.” Of course Jongin knows about the  _ Impressionisms _ runway show, he has it marked down on his own phone calendar. Usually, he lets his manager handle all of his endorsements, his bookings, his multiple schedules of the day; he allows himself to be herded from one location to another, eyes shut as he reclines in the plush leather seats of the SUV. 

The change in his mood does not go unnoticed by Kris; it is difficult to ignore the relaxed slump of Jongin’s shoulder, or the way his index finger circles the rim of his coffee mug, mind somewhere else entirely. “I hope the fact you should be on your best behaviour goes unsaid?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m always on my best behaviour!” He never is, but at least at work, he maintains a professional sense of decorum, working the long hours through hangovers and red-rimmed eyes. 

His response is received with a snort. “Please, don’t provide the tabloids any more fodder than they already have. I barely managed to get all those stories of your party last night taken down.”

Jongin gives his manager a two fingered salute, draining the rest of his coffee as he stands. “I’ll see you in the car.”

🎤

The _ Impressionisms _ head office is busy as usual, bustling with seamstresses and designers, and harried, overworked interns rushing from one room to another with coffee, fabric spools, and measuring tape in their hands. Jongin bumps into one of them, causing the poor kid to drop the several yards of fabric onto the tiled floors. Feeling bad, Jongin bends down with the kid to help him gather his materials, only to create a commotion when he is recognized. 

“Oh my god, you’re… You’re KAI!” Jongin watches as the kid pulls the yardage out of his hands, clutching them to himself as if Jongin cannot be seen performing such a menial task. “I’m so sorry! I should have been looking where I was going! It’s my first week on the job, and there’s just so much fabric, and I—“

Jongin interrupts him before the kid has an aneurysm, or a stroke or both. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s not a big deal, okay?” He offers up a patented smile, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Take a deep breath for me, hm?” Jongin demonstrates by sucking in air, waiting for the intern to follow and exhaling only once the kid does too. “I’d introduce myself, but you seem to know already.” On anyone else, the line would sound tried, overused, and arrogant but in Jongin’s honeyed tone, it’s charming. “What’s yours?”

“M-Mark.”

“Mark,” Jongin echoes, a genial smile sitting pretty on his features. He takes a shaking hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “Don’t worry about it, you’re a busy kid. If anything, I was in your way.”

The intern — Mark, his brain helpfully supplies — seems horrified at the thought of this, at the thought that Jongin could be at fault. It doesn’t phase Jongin; he chalks it up to the side-effects of fame. More often than not, people place him on a pedestal, separate him from the rest of society in his own bubble because he possesses the screams of millions of adoring fans. It suffocates Jongin; the pressure sits comfortably atop his chest, stealing the air from his lungs little by little until he learns to survive on depleted oxygen. Still, the starry look in Mark’s eyes sends warmth through his veins, like a shot of espresso injected directly into his bloodstream. 

“Mark! Why are you still standing around?”

The barked order pulls Mark away from Jongin, and though he would loathe to admit it, Jongin already misses the human contact. He does not remember how long it has been since he has touched someone with the same sincerity he held Mark’s hand. The meet and greet events, the screaming fans who latch onto whatever piece of him they can are all detached. Even the rotating schedule of bed partners only take from Jongin, whether it is the fame, the prestige, or simply the bragging rights of having slept with him. Over the years, album after album, tour after tour, Jongin fears he has become an empty shell. A hologram for the pop sensation, Kai.

Jongin watches the intern rejoin the busyness of the atelier, following behind a stuffy assistant type and Jongin has been around enough ateliers to know that the assistant is at the bottom rung of the ladder, taking out their frustration on the interns who aren’t even deigned a position on the corporate food chain. He turns away; it isn’t his problem, even though he sympathizes for the poor kid. Shoving his hands into his jacket, Jongin picks up his leisurely pace towards the atelier’s head office where he is expected.

He takes his time, looking around the venue. Things certainly have changed since he last graced the atelier with his presence. The cubicles have been knocked over, making room for an open space workplace complete with a proscenium arch. Jongin snorts; that is certainly one way to showcase the theatricality of the brand. He isn’t surprised at all; he knows whose handiwork is all over these renovations, the same way he knows the art pieces hanging in the halls by heart because he’s heard about them a million times. The glass elevator takes him up the few floors to the head office, and Jongin peers out, curious. 

It is the swishing open of the elevator doors which break Jongin out of his admiration, and he hurries with quick steps to the only room on the top floor. The decorative plants hold little interest for him although he has to admit, coupled with the overhead mood lighting, they really do create an atmospheric vibe, one which welcomes him into the space. 

Pushing forward, Jongin enters the office, not bothering to announce his presence. He has never needed to, and they have been waiting for him anyway. He can tell by the way Kris stands, face slightly pinched, holding Jongin’s coffee in his hand.

“There he is, my star.” 

Jongin turns to the new voice, face brightening. “Junmyeon!” There is a lilt to his voice, a smile curling at his lips. He’s the one who goes for the hug, encompassing the smaller man in his arms. “It has been too long, you should call me more often.”

“Ah, is my muse upset with me?”

“Very much so.” Jongin pulls away with a pout before he sinks into the leather couch placed artfully in the corner of the room, setting his cafe latte — now cold — on the glass coffee table. He lays carefully on the surface, lounging against the leather as he watches the face of the director of the fashion brand,  _ Impressionisms _ , morph into some form of fond affection. His heart bursts with ardour, and Jongin stamps on the urge to go back and pull Junmyeon into his arms, to leave a million kisses upon his perfect face.

“Oh dear,” Junmyeon commits, tone jovial and relaxed. “Whatever shall I do? I cannot have my muse upset before the grand show.”

“There’s only one solution here, Junmyeon.”

“And that would be?”

“Shower me with all your attention.”

This gets a laugh from Junmyeon. The sound is light, harmonious, and does enough for Jongin’s telltale heart to swoop into its own symphony, butterflies in his stomach preparing for an encore of Tchaikovsky’s ballet. He wants to drown in the sound, to spend the rest of his life listening to that laugh, letting it consume him. He glances over at his manager, watching their exchange with a detached coolness, and Jongin can’t help but smirk. He never has to worry about Jongin when he visits the  _ Impressionisms _ atelier: Jongin is always on his best behaviour for Junmyeon.

Junmyeon ruffles his hair, taking apart the carefully tousled strands until his hair falls into his eyes. Jongin smiles up at him. “What do you have for me today, then? Something brilliant, right?” Jongin should know; he had discovered the brand when it was just Junmyeon and the small studio apartment in which he crammed his fabrics, his sewing machine, his life. Even then, Junmyeon had pride. He named his brand  _ Impressionisms _ , derived from the painting movement that took the nineteenth century by storm. Jongin had always thought the title fit him, artistic as he was.

“Of course, only the best for my showstopper.”

Jongin flashes a smile as he lifts himself off the couch with all the grace of a lithe cat. He wanders through the room, stopping by the clothing rack. His hands are delicate, gentle as they peruse the different items of clothing hanging off the frame. “Which ones are mine?” Jongin does not want to think of Suho creating pieces for anyone other than him, does not want to imagine his exquisite hands on anyone else, except for Jongin. He is jealous, always has been. 

“You’ve been so difficult to get ahold of lately, superstar.”

“I had concerts!”

“Yeah yeah, hotshot. Well, it was impossible to squeeze you in for initial fitting so we had to use one of our reserve models. You guys are the same proportions… mostly. I think Sehun is a little taller.”

_ Sehun… _ The name rings a bell in Jongin’s mind, but he is not sure why. Not until said reserve model walks through the door, all shoulders and tiny waist. He has legs that go for days, and Jongin isn’t usually one to feel threatened, but Sehun’s entire existence is sexy; he does not have to put on airs the way Jongin does, the different layers he paints on to become an international sensation, the popstar: KAI. 

He watches with narrowed eyes, arms crossed against his chest, at Sehun interacting with Junmyeon; his gaze does not leave Junmyeon's face until Sehun disappears out the door once more. “What are we waiting for then? Let’s get these clothes on me, so we can choose something.” Jongin offers up a warm smile, eyes disappearing into half moons as he looks to Junmyeon. 

The jealousy which simmers in his stomach sets a bitter taste in his mouth, one which Jongin works to swallow down as Junmyeon comes over to him, holding a selection of clothing. In this moment, Junmyeon's attention is on him and that is what matters. Junmyeon's hands are on him, his warm smile is directed at Jongin and Jongin feels at peace. 

🎤

They say the real language of love is touch, a simple brushing of the hands, or interlacing of fingers. Perhaps it is the gentle caress of a palm against a cheek, a squeeze to the leg, a nudge to the shoulder — a reminder of  _ hey, I’m here and I love you. _ The language of touch is an aid to Jongin, for whom words are difficult. He stumbles over them, stutters with the magnitude of his affection. His heart has always been so full, but his words are fractured and often missing as he struggles to conjure emotions into coherent sentences.

There are other methods of touch too, ones that are much more intimate, much more romantic. The press of lips against lips, lips against his skin, lips anywhere there is a curling of ink which swathes his visage. Jongin feels something more than he is; he feels like the summation of the constellations in the sky, shining brighter than the moon ever could. His heart has been tight lipped, slowly withering away from emotional congress not unlike the petals of a forget me not. He has shrivelled himself away from the affinity of being loved, not because he feels as if he does not deserve it but, because he has never met anyone who has made him want to open his heart.

Until Junmyeon.

Junmyeon, who presses him into an alcove of his atelier workspace, hands impatient as they work at the belt of Jongin’s pants. Junmyeon’s mouth is hot and wet against his neck, leaving sloppy open mouthed kisses along the column of his throat. Jongin shuts his eyes, grateful for the wall against which he is pinned; it holds him upright as he clutches at the hem of Junmyeon’s shirt, helpless to anything but wanton moans. “Jun…” His voice is brittle, like his self control. “What if someone… Someone could walk—“

His protests go unheard as Junmyeon finally undoes the belt and lets it fall to the floor. It makes a clinking noise, reverberating through the space. “I’ve missed you,” is what Junmyeon says in response to Jongin’s fears. He sinks his teeth into space above Jongin’s collarbones and Jongin tosses his head back, another soft noise escaping him as he pulls Junmyeon hopelessly closer. “I wanted you to be showstopper.” Junmyeon’s voice comes in pants, as if he is fighting a losing battle with his own self control. “I wanted you to be showstopper so I could see you again.”

It is an admission as good as any. To Jongin, it is a confession. A confession when Jongin cannot string together his feelings long enough for them to spill past his lips. Instead, he pulls Junmyeon closer, lowering his head so he can leave kisses along Junmyeon’s collarbone. “If you want me, I’m there. I’ll always… For you.” His words are choked, distracted by Junmyeon’s warm hands undoing the buttons of his jeans.

Unpracticed, that’s what Jongin is. Jongin is not well acquainted with the practices of love, nor does it come easy to him the way it obviously does to Junmyeon. There are days, like this one, where there is a plethora of words resting at the tip of his tongue and no chariot to helm them. There is nothing to help Jongin in expressing how he feels so they die, right there on his tongue.

Junmyeon hums, and Jongin watches as he sinks to his knees in front of Jongin. He shuts his eyes when he feels Junmyeon’s teeth at his zipper, pulling it down. The puffs of hot air from Junmyeon’s breath send a shiver down Jongin’s spine and, desperate for something to do, something to anchor himself to, Jongin runs his fingers through his hair. His breaths are in staccato notes as he tries to fill his lungs with much needed air. 

“Jun…” It takes herculean effort for Jongin’s vocal cords to form anything other than appreciative moans as Junmyeon’s nails rake against the sensitive skin around his hipbone. He cants his hips to Junmyeon’s touch: wanting, begging, craving. “Please.”

In the back of his mind, Jongin registers his pants pooling around his ankles, exposing his cock trapped between his belly and his briefs. He can’t think straight, not when Junmyeon’s fingers trace the sinewy lines of his abdomen, as they ghost against his belly button; circling, trailing, but never quite touching where Jongin needs it most. He arches into the touch, whimpering. “More, please.” 

“Okay,” Junmyeon’s voice is low, ragged; it possesses a depth Jongin hears very rarely, a depth he only hears in stolen moments like these. “So polite, Jonginnie. So sweet.”

The praise goes straight to Jongin’s cock and he mewls, grinding against the air, desperate for any form of friction on his aching erection. Jongin forces his eyes open, sticky with desire. Even through the haze of lust and longing he can see the crimson dusting against Junmyeon’s cheeks, the dark glint in his eyes as if he wants to swallow Jongin whole. Jongin shudders at the thought; he would like nothing more than to be consumed by Junmyeon, to live in the crevices of his heart.

So lost he is in his own thoughts, Jongin almost misses Junmyeon pulling down his briefs, letting them rest mid thigh. His small hands graze Jongin’s inner thighs, gently spreading them. Jongin is more than willing to accommodate, allowing himself to be exhibited, vulnerable and open to Junmyeon’s scrutiny. Jongin feels as if he’s crawling out of his skin. Junmyeon is on his knees in front of him, and Jongin feels as if he is coming apart at the seams. 

Junmyeon’s lips seal around the head of Jongin’s cock, giving the head tentative licks. Junmyeon’s mouth is hot and slick, burning with the intensity of a thousand suns, around his cock. A groan escapes Jongin and his hands scrabble for purchase against the wall behind him. He curls his fingers into fists, nails digging into his palms as all the blood in his head rushes southward. Jongin’s knees are on the verge of buckling as he groans.

His eyes are shut, apprehensive to see what Junmyeon looks like sucking on his cock. Even now, Junmyeon goes lower, taking more of Jongin’s cock into his mouth. The heat of Junmyeon’s mouth is inviting and Jongin rocks his hips, shallow in their movement, into Junmyeon’s mouth. He feels oversensitive: as if the touch is too much, or not enough: the haze in Jongin’s brain refuses to clear long enough for him to find the difference between the two. Junmyeon, oblivious to Jongin’s predicament, continues to suck Jongin’s cock, lapping at the underside; his tongue presses harder against the vein, flicking at the sensitive tip until it is too much for Jongin.

“Junmyeon,” he moans, hand finally settling into Junmyeon’s hair. He thrusts his hips into the wetness of Junmyeon’s mouth. His blood is on fire, every part of Jongin is on fire. He cannot think straight, he’s not sure he’s ever been able to think straight in Junmyeon’s presence. One of Junmyeon’s hands come up to rest against Jongin’s hip, pressing him back, keeping him from eagerly fucking Junmyeon’s mouth. Jongin whines, as if he’s being denied a basic right.

The laugh which escapes Junmyeon reverberates around Jongin’s cock, feels unbearably good and Jongin feels every inch of his facade cracking and fading to dust under Junmyeon’s ministrations. He opens his eyes then, looking down at Junmyeon. He groans again. Junmyeon’s mouth, small and pink, is stretched around the girth of his cock. There is a string of saliva trailing down Junmyeon’s chin, lips swollen and red. He keeps his gaze on Junmyeon, watches his head bob on his dick, other hand fisting whatever he cannot reach as he brings Jongin to his peak.

From this angle, Jongin can see the outline of himself against Junmyeon’s cheek, can see how Junmyeon works to take as much of him into his mouth. It sends a ripple of affection through him, and Jongin clutches tighter at Junmyeon’s hair. The strands between his fingers act as an anchor, centring Jongin in this moment, keeping Junmyeon tethered to him. In this moment, he is simply  _ Jongin _ and the man on his knees in front of him desires him for who he is, not for who the world perceives him to be. 

The idea of that alone sends him tumbling headfirst into orgasm. A moan rips through Jongin almost involuntarily as he whites out. Junmyeon eases him through it, keeping his mouth wrapped around the head of Jongin’s cock, milking his orgasm for all its worth. The white noise in Jongin’s ears eventually fades as does the spell of the orgasm. His grip on Junmyeon’s hair loosens before falling altogether. Junmyeon pulls off of his cock, Jongin’s cum dripping from his lip. 

He waits for Junmyeon to stand before he places a hand on his waist. Jongin’s hand raises, thumb gently pressing against Junmyeon’s lower lip, wiping away the excess of his orgasm. There is a warmth in Junmyeon’s eyes, one that blankets Jongin with safety. He stares at Junmyeon, trying to find the words that live in his chest, the words which make a permanent home in his throat, too afraid to leap any further. “I…”

“Jongin…” Junmyeon’s voice shakes, tendrils of fear wrapped around each syllable. “Jongin, I love you.”

_ I love you too. I love you so much. You make me feel safe, you make me feel loved, as if I belong somewhere. With you, I feel as if I can just be Jongin. With you, I don’t need to hide behind Kai. _ The words he feels in his chest seem to tangle against his heartstrings, distorting beyond belief; mangled, once they reach the tip of his tongue. At this point, it is better to never utter them at all in fear of what he might end up saying. Jongin’s lips part, mouth forming words but not a single sound is made. 

And Junmyeon, lovely Junmyeon, kind Junmyeon, beautiful Junmyeon looks at him with so much hope. It is all too much. Jongin feels the weight of Junmyeon’s expectations settle on his shoulders, they shift and adjust to make room among the other expectations which broaden his frame. He steps back from Junmyeon, two large steps away from his touch as he pulls his clothes back up. Jongin’s hands shake as he zips his jeans up, body still in overdrive from his orgasm minutes.

“I…” He chokes on the words, instead spilling, “I have to go.”

  
  


🎤

Peace so rarely lasts in Jongin’s world; especially since more often than not, he is not Jongin. Jongin’s world is coloured in soft yellows and earthy browns, and reminds him of ocean waves crashing against the shore, or the smell of freshly cut grass. Jongin’s world is a refuge, one which he burrows himself into when everything around him moves too fast, demands too much from him. 

Unfortunately, Jongin is not who the public wants. When magazines interview him, they ask mundane questions:  _ What is your ideal girl? What’s your favourite place to eat? Favourite movie? Favourite book? _ Jongin’s answers vary drastically from his famous counterpart: Jongin’s ideal girl is someone who understands him, who doesn’t push him to be something he’s not; his favourite place to eat is the small Korean restaurant run by first generation immigrants and their children; his favourite movie varies according to his mood; Jongin’s favourite books are the kind that make him think, but he is partial to thrillers too. 

Kai’s answers are different. Kai is a carefully curated persona, the ‘bad boy’ if you will. Kai’s ideal girl is someone who can keep up with his lifestyle, the kind he can take both to parties and to meet his mother; his favourite places to eat are either Craig’s or Nobu; his favourite movie will be something happening and up to date, if his manager is pandering for a movie role for Kai, then it will be something the director has previously worked on; his favourite book? Kai would laugh, say his favourite books are the ones they turn into movies. 

He plays Kai as he is led out of the police station, body curved into his manager’s side as the wall of bodyguards shroud him, a jaunty walk and an easy smirk play on his lips as he raises a hand to greet the legion of fans who have been camping outside the station for the past night, fighting for his innocence. To them, he is infallible; to them, he has an infinitude of excuses. Poor Kai, they probably think, it must be so stressful to be under the limelight all the time, of course he is bound to crack. The most amusing part of it all is they are half correct.

Jongin isn’t quite certain  _ what _ possessed him to speed on the highway, to wrap his car around a telephone pole, but the relief which seeped through his veins when he stepped out of the smoking mess of his vehicular accident was insurmountable. For the first time in weeks, months, maybe even years — if Jongin is certain, he’ll say the last time he felt this exact feeling was at the release of his second album,  _ Runaways _ — he felt free; he felt the rush of endorphins rush through him. As he walked away from the scene of the accident, pulling his phone out to call Kris, Jongin felt invincible. 

Of course, all of that came crashing down when he was arrested hours later. The mugshot the police station has of him is no doubt flattering, because he has never taken a bad photograph in his life, but he knows his family — not that he talks to them frequently — will be disappointed in him. As he steps out of the jailhouse, nearly twenty four hours later, Jongin shoves his hands into his sweatshirt, hood covering his face. There is a jungle of paparazzi waiting for him outside, microphones and flash cameras at the ready; they are always ready to photograph his fall from grace. What they don’t understand, what his own manager doesn’t understand, is that no matter how detrimental he is to his own career, he’ll never die.

Irrelevancy does not become him. In fact, it does not belong in the same sentence as Kai. 

The fear of irrelevance however, clings to Jongin’s soul. He watches new acts launch, watches their songs rise up the charts, and when he’s asked about them at awards, he puts on a smile and welcomes the competition. The jealous gremlin only creeps out at night, once the party and the subsequent afterparties have wound down and Jongin’s back in his bed, nestled in his expensive sheets. He clutches the pillow tight to his chest, and allows himself to reminisce, to think back to the sheen of sweat on the faces of the rookies, the twinkle in their eyes; Jongin wonders if he’s too jaded to keep up with them now. 

He gets in trouble, yes, to stay relevant, but also for the reassurance; to see whether his fans will stick by him, even when he goes off the rails. 

“Nice little stunt you pulled there,” his manager mutters once they are safely inside the SUV, its tinted windows hiding Jongin from the view of his clamouring public. “You’re damn lucky the blood alcohol level was too low for them to formally charge you with anything. You’re getting off with a destruction of property charge.”

Jongin grins, patting Kris on the thigh. “You’re the best.”

“Keeping you functioning is a full time job. If I wanted children, I would have gotten married.”

“You still could, you know? I’d totally sing at your wedding. What do you want to hear?  _ Need to Be  _ is always popular at concerts! Oh, how about  _ Don’t You Worry? _ That’s really romantic, I know that Claudia would like it.”

“How do you know about—”

“I know everything! Besides, you’re a serial monogamist at best, and a sappy, romantic bastard at worst. You’ve been dating her since forever. It can’t have been anyone else.”

Kris laughs.

The sound relaxes Jongin. He settles into his seat, pulling the hood down and spreading his legs. 

“You did make quite a mess, you know? Jail? Jongin, come on. Even I know this is unlike you.”

He shrugs. 

“It’s a miracle you got out, do you know how many strings I had to pull? And on the day of the  _ Impressionisms _ show?”

Jongin sits up then, eyes wide and alert as he stares at Kris. “Do I have to miss it? Have I ruined it?”

“No, thank god. We’re going directly to the venue. It’s a good thing you’re the showstopper, and that Junmyeon adores you.”

That settles a warmth in his chest and Jongin slouches back into his seat. The reassurance that he hadn’t ruined Junmyeon’s big night, that he hadn’t screwed up  _ that _ relationship too, relaxes him. 

A hush blankets the car, and Jongin glances over to where Kris’s face is illuminated by the light of his phone. His brows are furrowed, and the dent on his forehead is bordering on permanent. Jongin feels another wave of guilt wash over him. He pulls the sleeves of his sweatshirt further until they catch between his palm and his fingers. “Kris?”

The noncommittal hum he receives in response lets Jongin know he has his manager’s attention.

“I’m sorry.” Even the word feels heavy on his tongue, as if it is not apology enough for what he has put Kris through over the last few years. He remembers simpler times, when he was first signed to Universal, when everything seemed bright and shiny, when the world was his oyster. Kris had been his guiding light then, a mammoth hand on his shoulder which nudged him in the right directions and pulled him back from people taking advantage of him.

“Hey…” Kris offers him a smile. It makes Jongin feel worse. “It’s okay. I know you’re a good kid, Jongin. You’re having your… teenage meltdowns in your twenties. Just next time, maybe warn me if you want to get arrested?”

Jongin smiles. The weight on his chest remains but it is lighter now, allowing him to take breaths in succession. “You got it.”

“The plane is waiting on the tarmac right now, Junmyeon's getting a little anxious about you getting in under the wire but when I suggested using the reserve model, he threw a fit. Said there was nobody he wanted to close his show except for you.”

The words go straight to Jongin’s heart. It pumps blood, revitalized with the thought of love, through his veins. Jongin smiles down at his hands. “I mean, I  _ did _ discover him. Remember when I wore that deconstructed shirt to that radio show?”

“You mean the one with the split down your back? The one that was held together by a ribbon?”

“That’s the one. It got so much buzz it gave him his first real clients. It’s no surprise I’m his favourite.”

Kris gets an odd look on his face, one which Jongin can’t decipher. It’s gone before Jongin can even question in, replaced with Kris’s usual half smile. “Yeah well, you’re holding up his entire Spring Summer fashion collection and could this car go  _ any _ faster?” Jongin watches as Kris leans forward to converse with the driver, catching snippets of his irritated tone. 

He sinks further into his seat, pulling out his headphones out from the car sleeve and scrolling down his playlists to find something appropriate.

🎤

Jongin wakes to an empty bed. It isn’t completely out of the ordinary but even when he throws ragers, or invites someone over, he has to be the one to force them out of his bed and home; especially when they are clearly unaware of having overstayed their welcome. He frowns still, sitting up as he runs a hand through his hair. The mess of his tufts of hair are sent into further disarray as he gently combs his fingers through the bird’s nest. 

The other half of the bed is still warm, as if his guest for the night has only recently vacated their space. Jongin climbs out of bed, nearly tripping over the bottle of Domaine Leflaive Montrachet. He bends down to pick it up, reaching for his robe as he shrugs it on. Empty Chardonnay bottle in hand, Jongin makes his way out of his master bedroom, heavy steps on each stair. He walks past the pop art reimagining of himself that hangs over the stairwell, before heading to the kitchen.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee catches his attention. Jongin slowly pads his way into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes when he spots a silhouette by the counter. It seems to be having an argument with his coffee maker. Jongin comes over, draping himself over the familiar form, and drops a kiss by the offender’s ear. “You weren’t in bed this morning,” his voice is low, husky from the hours of sleep.

“Some of us have schedules, you know. Body clocks that wake us up, and an unquenchable thirst for coffee?”

Jongin rolls his eyes, albeit affectionately. “Yeah, well I have an unquenchable thirst too.”

“Is that so?”

“Aren’t you going to ask what for?” Jongin’s tone is petulant, his full lips pouting as he speaks. “Humour me, Junmyeon.”

“Alright, what are you thirsting for?”

Jongin snickers to himself as he trails a hand down, cupping Junmyeon’s firm asscheek in his large palm. “Your ass.”

“Jongin!” Junmyeon sounds pleased though, if the way he’s trying to contain his smile is any indicator. There’s also the fact Junmyeon does not dissuade Jongin’s wandering hands, leaving himself open to Jongin’s whims. 

“Seriously, come back to bed. We can Doordash some food, what do you want? Eggs? A sandwich?”

Junmyeon laughs, detangling himself from the mess of Jongin’s limbs as he reaches for a coffee mug. “Just coffee, I was thinking we could do brunch later?”

Jongin’s heart plunges. Brunch would mean letting people  _ see _ , letting people into their relationship, into the little slice of heaven Jongin has carved for himself; a place where he can exist without the prying lenses of cameras, the intrusive words of tabloid reporters, or even the beliefs and assumptions of his fans. His hands still on Junmyeon’s waist, pulse skyrocketing.

“Jongin?” Junmyeon turns to look at him, coffee mug between their torsos. His brows furrow together, lips drawn downwards into a pout. “Hey, we don’t… We don’t have to go to brunch. We can stay in, I’m sure whatever place will deliver.”

He swallows the guilt building in his throat. It forms a lump, a reminder that Junmyeon deserves better than what Jongin can give him. He watches Junmyeon fumble for words, very obviously tiptoeing around Jongin. It leaves an uneasy feeling in Jongin’s chest, muscle stretching over his ribcage, tight enough to make breathing difficult. It isn’t Junmyeon who should tread carefully, trying to make sure he doesn’t hurt Jongin’s feelings, not after he still showed up when Jongin called, after their disastrous dalliance in the  _ Impressionisms _ atelier. Sure, Junmyeon had still wanted him to walk the runway for him, but those were obligations; those were decisions made by Suho and Kai, not Jongin and Junmyeon. 

Jongin knows he has to meet Junmyeon halfway, offer some form of compromise if he wants Junmyeon to stay. He has to say something, he knows he should. He cannot let his silence misconstrue his relationship with Junmyeon again. “No!” It slips louder, less practiced than he expected it to. “I mean, no. We’ll go to brunch, I want to go to brunch with you.” Jongin reaches for Junmyeon’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Where do you want to go? We can go anywhere you want. I’m KAI, I can get us a reservation at any eatery.”

Junmyeon snorts. His eyes soften, and the elephant on Jongin’s chest vanishes into thin air; it is replaced by the frantic beating of butterfly wings in his stomach. Jongin welcomes the winged monarchs, welcomes the giddy feeling in his sternum at the sight of Junmyeon’s smile. “Alright, hotshot. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Oh but Jongin does. Jongin wants to get so ahead of himself, he’ll be winning the race before the shots have even been fired. He wants to settle with Junmyeon, leaving behind his insane life in the limelight. He wants a house in the country, three dogs, and Junmyeon. Jongin pulls Junmyeon closer, free hand raising to push back the hair which falls into his eyes. His own eyes shine with sincerity as he stares at Junmyeon; his heart is settled, steady on the tumultuous waters because in this moment, he belongs. He belongs to someone; a romantic at heart, Jongin wonders if it was sheer magnetism which drew him to Junmyeon all those years ago. If he’s spent all the years in between, all the years leading up to this moment, becoming worthy of Junmyeon’s love. “I love you.”

Junmyeon was not expecting those words, that much is for certain. He sees it in the way Junmyeon’s eyes widen, in the way his jaw slackens. “Jongin…” The way his voice quivers, Jongin knows he won’t like whatever Junmyeon has to say. Dispelling the dark cloud hovering over his head, Jongin waits for Junmyeon to finish. “You don’t have to… You don’t have to say it back if you don’t—“

Oh.  _ Oh. _ Junmyeon thinks— “Of course I do.” He cringes, wishing he could go back to a minute ago. Or maybe even back to that night in the atelier so he could do anything, literally anything, other than bolt at the sign of Junmyeon’s confession. “I mean… I do have to, because I mean it. I love you.”

Jongin likes to think he has memorized every face Junmyeon Kim, owner and chief designer of the label  _ Impressionisms, _ has ever made. He recognizes each minuscule raise of the eyebrows, or curling of his mouth, the way his nose twitches — Jongin notes it down, relates it to an emotion. He has it down to a science. 

The look on Junmyeon’s face right now however, is not one Jongin has ever seen before. He thinks he may have seen something similar to it the night Junmyeon confessed his feelings after sucking his cock. His eyes twinkle; to Jongin, they hold the sparkle of a thousand stars. His lips twitch, as if he’s trying to tamper down on a smile large enough to split his face, before beaming regardless. 

_ Love, _ Jongin realizes. The look on Junmyeon’s face right now is one of love. He is looking at Jongin as if Jongin is something precious to him,  _ someone _ precious to him. Ardour, hot red and flushed, floods through Jongin’s body and he pulls Junmyeon to him, covering his mouth with his own. 

He lets Junmyeon take charge of them, and lets Junmyeon clutch at the edges of his robes as he manhandles Jongin onto the counter. Jongin follows willingly, hoisting himself up on the counter and pulling Junmyeon between his spread thighs, hands clutching his shoulders. Junmyeon is broad underneath Jongin’s touch, muscles rippling against his palm. The thought goes straight to Jongin’s stirring cock, now twitching with interest.

“Oh,  _ baby,” _ Junmyeon’s voice is soft, guttural as he undoes the strings of Jongin’s flimsily tied robe. The silk falls open under Junmyeon’s command and it doesn’t take much for Jongin to shrug the fabric off his shoulders, letting it pool around him, spreading on the marble of the countertop. 

“Touch me. Touch me, please.”

Junmyeon is still wearing far too much for Jongin’s liking and he pulls at Junmyeon’s hair, tugs him away from Jongin’s mouth so Jongin can trail his lips along Junmyeon’s pale, perfect neck. It’s pristine, elegant, like a painting; Jongin wants to leave a trail of hickeys along it, ruining it, ruining  _ him. _

“Jongin…” Junmyeon groans.

“Off. Take— Take your boxers off.” Jongin demands, spreading his legs further as he does so. He aches, desperately wanting to be filled. The tenderness of his muscles from last night has returned with a vengeance and with each stretch of his thighs, Jongin feels the sting. 

A breathy laugh falls from Junmyeon’s lips, the tips of his ears red. Jongin adores that about him, adores how he can still flush while making Jongin so fucking  _ horny. _ “What do you want from me, baby?”

“You…”

Junmyeon’s hands are busy now, trailing up Jongin’s legs, tracing Jongin’s inner thigh, thumb pressing into blossoming bruises and bites from the night before. Jongin’s hands clutch at the edge of the marble countertop, trying to steady himself, his knuckles white. He shuts his eyes, tilting his head back with a groan when he feels Junmyeon’s lips against his skin. “A little more specific please, darling.”

_ Darling… _ Jongin’s heart leaps out of his chest. He feels a neediness wash over him, dripping down the column of his neck, and Jongin moans. Junmyeon’s fingers circle around his rim and Jongin arches into it, wanting to suck Junmyeon’s fingers into his hole. “Please… I want…” He tries his best to string his sentences together, but it is difficult to think above the constant stream of thoughts wanting nothing more than Junmyeon to destroy him, to take him apart piece by piece. 

Junmyeon pushes another finger to join his first one and Jongin tightens his grip on the edge of the countertop. He can feel the side digging into his palm, and Jongin is sure it will leave a mark but he doesn’t care. The sting of pain distracts him from the tug in his gut, the desire pooling in his stomach as Junmyeon stretches him open again.

“You’re still loose from last night,” Junmyeon comments. His tone is casual, as if he’s discussing the weather and not the remnants of their lovemaking the night before. 

Jongin flushes. “Don’t tease, just…” Jongin groans when he feels Junmyeon’s fingers brush against his prostate. He arches into the touch, spine taut, jaw clenched. “Fuck, Junmyeon…”

A laugh. 

“Fuck, Junmyeon… Junmyeon…” Jongin chants, a litany of his lover’s name, of the man who completes him. He squirms, fucking himself on Junmyeon’s fingers, grinding against Junmyeon’s hand.

“Alright, I’ll give you what you need, baby. Don’t worry.” Junmyeon withdraws his hand, and Jongin pulls him closer, impatient hand resting against his hip. His eyes flutter shut as Junmyeon pushes in, his girth stretching Jongin. 

Jongin moans, pressing his mouth to Junmyeon’s clavicle, leaving sloppy kisses along Junmyeon’s chest as Junmyeon thrusts into him. Jongin’s blood feels like lava and he melts under Junmyeon’s touch. Junmyeon fits perfectly against him; to Jongin, they are like two puzzle pieces, made to fit. He is all sharp edges while Junmyeon is sandpapered curves, smooth to the touch. Alone, Jongin does not make any sense; his colours and shapes have no rhyme nor reason but when he interlocks his fingers with Junmyeon, when he presses against his sturdy frame, when he  _ kisses _ Junmyeon, everything clicks, falling into place. 

With Junmyeon, Jongin finally belongs.

Junmyeon has him, holds him in his arms, as Jongin wraps his legs around Junmyeon’s slim hips, small waist, pulling him closer, pushing him deeper inside Jongin. Half formed, incoherent mumbles escape Jongin as Junmyeon rocks into him, but it doesn’t matter. Not when Junmyeon is holding him, dependable, murmuring reassurances into his ear. Jongin anchors himself onto Junmyeon, clutching his shoulder blades as Jongin rides out Junmyeon’s hard thrusts.

His orgasm creeps on him, back arching and spasming around Junmyeon’s cock. Junmyeon holds him through that too, moaning as he spills into Jongin. He presses his forehead to Jongin’s shoulder, eliciting a smile from Jongin who reaches forward to brush away the sweaty strands of hair from Junmyeon’s forehead. 

Silence blankets the kitchen, but Jongin’s heartbeat is steady; it mingles with Junmyeon’s, and silence has never sounded more peaceful. Jongin’s world has come to a standstill, in a way it never has before and it is all thanks to Junmyeon.

The rumble from Jongin’s stomach breaks the tranquility. He colours like a rose in the springtime, ears a dusty pink. 

Junmyeon laughs. “I guess we should get in the shower, then. The brunch place won’t stay open forever.”

Jongin stifles a comment about how it will be for him, and instead draws Junmyeon in for a kiss.

🎤

**epilogue.**

Jongin sinks into the couch, arms holding more than enough snacks meant for two people. Junmyeon is already comfortable, with the fleece throw delicately tossed over his crossed legs. He rests a glass of wine on his knee, fiddling with the controls.

“Why did you want to skip this? Aren’t you nominated?”

Jongin shrugs, balancing the tray of mini sandwiches in his lap while opening the bag of chips which he then offers to Junmyeon. “I was nominated before, and I’ve been plenty of times, to perform or whatever.”

“Yeah, but the buzz is you’re going to win the Best Pop Duo Performance.”

“And whose idea was it for me to ask Zayn to collaborate on the track?”

Junmyeon’s grin widens. “That would be mine.”

“Then why aren’t  _ you _ there?”

“Jongin…” The exasperation in his voice is fond, and Jongin feels content. Gone are the days of the wild parties, and a rotating schedule of bed partners; gone are the days of joyrides in one of his many expensive cars, or being arrested after said joyrides. He no longer fears being forgotten or becoming irrelevant, well no more so than usual, because he knows there is someone who will always remember him. 

“What? The song is  _ about _ you! If I win, it’s only fair that you are there too.”

His cheek gets him a whack to the head, which is immediately followed by Junmyeon’s hand ruffling his hair, letting his bangs fall into his eyes. The television drones on in the background but Jongin isn’t watching; it is difficult for anything other than Junmyeon to ever hold his attention.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,  _ popstar.” _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> little details i couldn't put in the fic:  
> 
> 
> * most of KAI's track titles are from justin bieber's journals and believe album.  
> 
> * junmyeon's fashion label is a mix between David Koma and Lemaire's collections.  
> 
> * KAI sometimes acts, and his first feature was a dance film which broke ticketing records, mostly because of his fans.
> 
> if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for reading this fic! as always, comments and kudos are appreciated. come talk to me on [twitter](twitter.com/522overdose) or [curiouscat.](curiouscat.me/522overdose)


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